


A Kingdom From Dust

by fairyroses



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Abbie is a Literal Phoenix because Fuck FOX, Abraham has a lot of Issues (and Ghost Therapists), Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussions of Trauma and Grief, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Magic, Mostly canon compliant until the mid-season 3 finale, Playing fast and loose with mythology, Redemption, Slow Burn, after that canon can go fuck itself lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8051917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyroses/pseuds/fairyroses
Summary: Captured by Pandora, tortured by her lover, and severed from Death's power, Abraham has no choice but to accept the help reluctantly offered by those who ought to hate him most - even though doing so will force him to confront his wrongdoings in ways he's never had to before. But with the threat of an eternal winter looming over Sleepy Hollow, Abraham is not the only one struggling to cope. As Abbie wrestles under the weight of a mysterious illness and a dangerous secret, Jenny suffers in silence over her trauma at the hands of a vengeful goddess and the grief of losing a man she was just beginning to love. Ichabod, meanwhile, feels helpless as he watches two of the most important people in his life begin to unravel at the seams.Over time, however, Abraham will learn that there is more to Death than just killing, and together, he and Team Witness come to realize that they each have the power within themselves to make a difference in each other's lives. (And maybe the power to save the world, too.)





	1. Come and See

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Thanks for clicking on this fic! (I know the summary is a bit much, so seriously, thanks.) 
> 
> This is the first time I'm attempting to write Actual Multi-Chaptered Fanfic in over 5 years, so please be gentle with me here. Updates will definitely not be regular (because I suck, and also because I'm a full-time college student), but I've been planning and drafting versions of this fic for over a year now (and it is very near and dear to my heart), so I'm determined to actually write (and finish) the damn thing by this point.
> 
> And I know one of the main pairings is pretty unconventional, but just bear with me, okay? I'm gonna make this work, I swear. (As far as I'm concerned, if you don't come out of this fic shipping Jenny/Abraham, then I haven't done my job right lol.) Also, despite Ichabbie being secondary on the list of pairings, they'll probably happen first. Just letting y'all know. ;) 
> 
> But enough rambling - onto the story! :)

* * *

_“And Death, in his shame,_

_built **a kingdom from dust**_

_as penance, as proof,_

_that his fingers were made_

_for more than destruction.”_

_\- Emily Palermo_

* * *

 

Abraham Van Brunt was freezing.

Though his body was impervious to most all weapons, he was powerless against the onslaught of torturous cold—the ice that slowly seeped down beneath his skin and into his very bones. His wrists, shackled by frozen chains, had long ago fallen numb, with his hands and forearms soon following. Small icicles hung from the tip of his nose, and frost coated even his pale eyelashes. Each breath was painful, the frigid air cutting through his throat and lungs like a knife.

Abraham did not know how long he had been here, in this desolate cell. It could have been days, weeks, or months. At first his anger had fueled him, the waves of Death’s power driving out the relentless cold. He’d pulled against his restraints until his wrists had bled, and his voice had gone hoarse from shouting obscenities at his unseen captors. But over time he had weakened, quieted, and stopped trying to fight.

He was tough, and stubborn to a fault, but even Death had its breaking point.

For a time he simply hung his head in defeat, and was silent.

But then suddenly, _she_ was there, drawing Abraham’s eyes up once again. Before him was a being who radiated power, stronger than even Moloch himself. Who walked barefoot along the frosty floor, uncaring of the chill. Her skin and hair were dark, but her eyes were a shimmering pale blue. They were as cold as a blizzard, and as beautiful as freshly fallen snow.

Abraham, with the aid of the timeless being tied to his soul, knew immediately who she was. 

The mortals, they thought Hell was hot—a forsaken land made of fire and brimstone. But they were wrong.

Hel is not heat. She is the shivering sensation of dread that sinks in your stomach as you approach your certain doom. She is the absence of hope, the coldness of despair. The slow departure from life, and the frozen stillness of death.

Hel is not fire.

She is _ice_.

And she was standing right in front of him.

 _Come now, Abraham,_ her voice whispered inside his mind, smooth as silk. Mocking.

Her red lips twisted into a smirk.

_Come and **see**. _

Her smile was devastating and lovely, her eyes like bottomless pools of blue malice, and against his will, Abraham found himself drowning—

And then an electric current, more potent than any lightning, rocketed through his weakened frame, and as the bonds knitting Death to his soul began shattering like glass, all he could do was scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is really more of a prologue than a chapter, I've also decided to post the first "official" chapter (which...okay, is really more like a second prologue) directly after it, so be sure to click onward and read that too!


	2. Demons

Jenny Mills was burning.

She panted, sweat dripping from her forehead, as her body cooked itself from the inside out. It was unnatural— _supernatural—_ a power too overwhelming for her to contain. It was scorching, boiling the very soul out of her, until her body no longer felt like her own. Someone—or _something_ —else was in control. Something ancient, with fathomless blue eyes and a smile like death. It fed her visions of violence and destruction, of prophecies written in unknown scripts, cities frozen in ice, and a sky colored the red of freshly shed blood.

_You have taken something from me, mortal._

_I would like it back._

And then the power was being pulled from her, ripped from beneath her skin, and it was like no pain she had ever felt before. She screamed, trashing against the ground, but icy bonds held her in place. Tears fell from her eyes, only to sizzle and vaporize against her heated skin—her skin, formerly a solid light brown, which was now marred by swirling patches of orange and red, like molten lava.

Again came the ancient being, with a magnetizing force that could draw the very life out of her. Jenny watched with hazy eyes as the two figures standing before her embraced, the pale skin of Pandora contrasting with the dark brown of her companion. Pandora was powerful, but the second being positively radiated energy, and when it turned its focus to Jenny, she came to understand for herself the story of Icarus, and what it meant to fly too close to the Sun.

It was not the warm, comforting light of day, but a harsh, cold light—one that caused you to flinch away, lest your eyes become scarred by it. Snow-blindness without the snow.

The being had the figure of a woman, but Jenny knew, instinctively, that it was not human. One half of it appeared normal—beautiful, even—but the other half of its skin was purple-black with frostbite. Dead patches of flesh hung loosely over exposed bone.

Then the creature smiled, and Jenny was screaming again, because she _recognized_ that smile. That tilt of the head. That hair. That nose.

Even with only half of a face, Jenny would know her sister anywhere.

Then its— _Abbie’s—_ eyes glowed white, like twin shards of ice, and Jenny was on fire.

<><><><> 

Jenny jerked awake with a gasp.

Her pulse beat sharply at her temples, and it felt like her heart was trying to pound itself out of her chest—but she was not burning. In fact, as she sat up in bed and the sweat across her back began to cool, she actually shivered.

 _Just a dream_ , she thought, huffing out a breath and hugging herself tightly. _A bad memory. A nightmare._

This was not the first time she’d woken up to one in the past few weeks—actually, some kind of a nightmare woke her at least once every night—but they were not usually so vivid. It hadn’t just been a memory of pain, of the Shard of Anubis being removed; it had felt _real,_ like it was happening all over again _._ Jenny scrubbed her hands across her eyes, wiping away the sleep, and glanced at the clock on her bedside table.

It read _3:26._

Jenny sighed, knowing that she should lie down and go back to sleep. But something in the back of her head still tingled, making her fidgety, and she found herself standing instead. She quietly slipped out of her room, bare feet soundless on the wooden floor of Abbie’s hallway. The tips of her fingers trailed lightly against the wall as she walked, its familiar texture grounding her. It was probably just leftover anxiety from the nightmare that was bothering her, she knew, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of _wrongness_ that was skittering across her shoulders, the sense that _something’s not right._

The first door that she opened led to the other guest room, and Jenny only needed a moment to peer inside and take note of the clearly still-sleeping Ichabod before she slowly shut the door and continued on. Ichabod was a heavy sleeper, and, despite everything, rarely suffered from nightmares.

He was not the one Jenny was worried about.

At the end of the hallway was a more ornate door, which opened into a master bedroom that had undoubtedly been designed to accommodate two, not one. This fact was most apparent in the way the queen-sized bed seemed to swallow up Abbie’s tiny form, curled, as it was, into a ball in the center of a tangle of blankets and sheets. The buzzing in the back of Jenny’s head grew louder as she stood in Abbie’s open doorway, until she realized that it wasn’t buzzing at all, but rather the harsh, continuous wheezing of Abbie’s breathing.

She was across the room in seconds, climbing onto the bed beside her sister. Abbie was twitching, eyes moving beneath her eyelids, rapidly flicking back and forth in obvious REM sleep. She was clutching her blankets tightly, and her face was drenched in sweat, much like Jenny’s had been.

Jenny’s hand immediately fell to Abbie’s forehead, but she pulled it back with a gasp, shocked at the heat. Abbie was burning up.

“Abs,” Jenny said, taking Abbie’s arm and shaking her. “ _Abbie_.”

Abbie jerked awake, her legs kicking out, rocketing her body away from Jenny’s. She immediately sat up straight, eyes wide and glassy.

“Wha–?” she panted, gaze darting around the room. Confused. Disoriented. Frightened. “Where–?”

“It’s okay…Abbie, it’s okay,” said Jenny, hands gently squeezing her sister’s shoulders. Comforting. Quieting. Calming. “It’s okay.”

Jenny did this so often these days—too often. Ever since she and Ichabod had rescued Abbie from the Catacombs, as they’d all taken to calling it, something about Abbie had been _off_. If it wasn’t her health, which seemed to fluctuate randomly between ‘perfectly fine’ and ‘a bad case of the flu,’ then it was her personality, which seemed so artificial nowadays that Jenny could hardly stand it. As much as Jenny told her otherwise, Abbie was _not_ okay. She was jumpy, guarded, and closed-off; more than she ever had been before. She was jittery, as if she had too much energy pent up inside and no way to dispel it. And when she _was_ happy, it came off as inexplicably forced.

Ichabod just assumed that it was the trauma of the Catacombs, and that Abbie would get past it eventually, but Jenny knew that it was something else.

Abbie was hiding something from them, and Jenny had no idea what, or why.

Now was not the time to mention that though, because right now Abbie needed her support, not her accusations. So Jenny once again placed her palm on Abbie's forehead, frowning at the sudden change to coolness, and then tucked her suspicions away in the back of her mind, focusing instead on the task of taking care of her sister.

Later, after she’d gotten Abbie a glass of cold water from downstairs, the two Mills sisters curled up on the large bed and fell asleep, tangled together as if they were still small children, afraid of the dark and the demons that lurked inside it.

Only now, the demons were real, and they both knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm nervous as hell posting this, mostly because I didn't think anyone would like it or be interested in it, so if by some miracle you ARE interested then please let me know so I have some kind of encouragement to continue (even though I'll probably continue regardless)! Every comment and kudos is greatly appreciated, and I'll try my best to reply to all the comments I get. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and giving this fic a chance!
> 
> (Also, the chapters should _hopefully_ get longer after this. I find writing longer things kind of difficult, so that's something that I'm going to try to improve as I write this story.)


	3. Restless Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy cancellation, one and all! Apologies for the extremely delayed update, but unfortunately the sad state of our once-beloved show was enough to kill my motivation for a while. :( But now that it's cancelled, I don't have to feel like that anymore! Hopefully you can expect semi-regular updates for this fic from now on as a result (I say, while praying to the motivation gods). 
> 
> Happy reading for now, and a big THANK YOU to the people who have left kudos or commented so far! :)

After three hours of restless tossing and turning, Jenny rose with the sun, sliding carefully out of Abbie’s bed and making her way downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs she paused to stretch and yawn, jaw cracking, and then shivered at an unexpected draft of cold air. It was only early September, and yet there was a distinct chill in the large house that prompted Jenny to snatch a fluffy blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around herself like a cocoon.

Feeling rather zombie-like, Jenny went through the motions of pouring herself some cereal, then plopped down in front of the television and switched it on.

This early, the selections were slim, so she opted for the local news in the hope that it would be boring enough to send her back off to sleep.

It didn’t.

So Jenny crunched on her cereal instead, blinking slowly and paying only minimal attention to the weather forecast. Something about a cold front. Jet stream nonsense. _Blah blah blah, possible storms…_

“Lot of good meteorology’s gonna do when we’re all dead,” she muttered to the irritatingly perky weather lady onscreen, who continued to smile as she moved on to the country-wide forecast. Jenny sighed, glancing down at her soggy cereal. Had she always been this nihilistic?

 _Yes,_ she thought stubbornly, but she knew it wasn’t true. Jenny from two months ago wouldn’t be sitting here alone in her pajamas, awake and exhausted at the crack of dawn, grumbling defeatist bullshit at a TV screen. But then, Jenny from two months ago hadn’t yet seen a man that she’d known since she was a teenager get sucked into a magical box of doom and effectively snuffed out of existence. A man that she had hugged more times than she could count, but had only kissed twice. A man who had been kind, and brave, and who had told her that he loved her.

A man she’d never said those words back to.

Jenny swallowed hard as the colors of the television screen began blurring together, and her cereal bowl clattered loudly on the coffee table in her hurry to put it down. She scrubbed at her face roughly, removing any trace of tears before they could truly appear.

 _Abbie is upstairs,_ she thought, breathing hard. _Abbie is upstairs and three weeks ago we thought she was dead._ Her pulse steadied as she repeated this thought. _We thought she was dead, but we got her back. We can get Joe back, too._

Jenny looked up at the TV, then above it to the mantle, where a row of framed photographs resided. One in particular caught her gaze and held it—an old, faded photo of August Corbin, standing with one arm slung around the shoulders of a grinning nine-year-old Joe. Abbie had found it tucked away in Corbin’s files, archived alongside a thousand-year-old text about demonic possession, and had decided to frame it.

_I can’t give up on him yet._

Jenny tossed her blanket cocoon aside with renewed energy. She needed a plan. She needed food that wasn’t dissolving in milk.

She needed _at least_ two cups of coffee.

<><><><> 

When Ichabod descended the staircase and turned the corner into Abbie’s kitchen, he was greeted by what could only be described as _organized chaos._ Stacks of books, papers, and photographs surrounded Jenny, who was poking at her laptop with one hand and drinking from a large coffee mug held in the other. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a tangled disarray, and her toes were tapping on the floor far too quickly to be following any beat. She glanced up as Ichabod’s foot landed on the bottom step, which creaked loudly, her eyes barely acknowledging his presence before she diverted her attention back to the computer.

“Hey,” she said in lieu of a proper ‘good morning’, and took another gulp of her drink. She nodded her head to the side, gaze never leaving the screen, as she added, “There’s extra coffee in the pot if you want it.”

Ichabod considered commenting on the whole arrangement before him, but then thought better of it. This was not the first time he had awoken to Jenny in a coffee-induced whirlwind of activity, and when she got into such a state she was not particularly receptive to conversation. He instead skirted around the island, which Jenny had almost entirely commandeered, and made his way to the familiar black coffeepot.

However, as soon as he lifted it, he frowned.

“Miss Jenny…”

“Hmm?”

Ichabod opened the top of the pot and peered inside, just to be sure, and then declared definitively, “There is no coffee in this coffeepot.”

This seemed to snap Jenny out of her haze of research for a moment, for she turned and stared at Ichabod in confusion.

“But…there was…I made…” Ichabod could not stop his left eyebrow from rising incredulously as Jenny paused, first glancing at her own coffee mug, then taking a moment to count on her fingers. Whatever number she came up with made her eyes widen a bit, and she abruptly straightened, a too-wide grin plastered onto her face. “Whoops! Hah, I must’ve just…miscounted. Uh, I can make you another pot—”

Ichabod held up a hand to stop her from scrambling over to him, an action that would have undoubtedly sent countless documents flying.

“There is no need for that, Miss Jenny. I can prepare my own coffee.” He smiled faintly as he turned his attention to the pot, and said offhandedly, “Good morning, by the way.”

<><><><> 

After a period of relative silence, during which Ichabod prepared himself a breakfast of eggs and toast—complete with a fresh cup of coffee—and Jenny skimmed through two books, bookmarked four websites, and scribbled a page full of nearly illegible notes, the bell of the living room’s grandfather clock finally began to toll, signaling the turn of a new hour. Ichabod swallowed another gulp of coffee, slowly placing the mug down as he counted the chimes. _Seven…Eight…Nine…Ten._ He frowned, and glanced to the side, only to meet eyes with Jenny, who was making much the same expression across the room from him. They shared an unspoken question, a mutual unease.

Abbie had not yet descended the stairs to join them.

Jenny’s eyes continued to hold Ichabod’s until he saw something in them flicker, like a recognition of pain, and Jenny seemed to deflate. She put her pen down slowly, reluctantly.

“I should…I should go check on her.” She nodded, as if that settled things, and slid off of the kitchen stool, movements jerky, legs stiff in a way that made Ichabod wonder just how long she had been seated in that spot. Her feet, he noted as she padded across the room, were bare, and she was still wearing her sleeping clothes from the night before.

“Perhaps the Lieutenant is simply enjoying a peaceful morning in bed,” Ichabod supplied, trying to ignore how hollow the words sounded to his own ears. Jenny did not even dignify him with a response, and instead made her way towards the staircase with increasingly purposeful strides.

Ichabod looked down at his plate, absently pushing a piece of scrambled egg around with his fork in silent displeasure. This was not right. Jenny was Abbie’s sister, and yet her recent behavior more so resembled that of a live-in nurse. Constantly checking. Always hovering.

He could connect the dots of causation well enough—losing Joe had taken a toll on all of them, but Jenny worst of all, and the fear of further loss was a powerful motivator. But while it was true that Abbie had not been her usual self as of late, it had only been a mere three weeks since her ten-month-long stay in the Catacombs had ended.

_An adjustment period—of both the physical and mental sort—is to be expected._

Ichabod reminded himself of this fact often, particularly when Abbie behaved in a way that was incongruent with the partner that he knew and—

Well.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by twin exclamations of surprise, and looked up just in time to see Jenny nearly collide with Abbie in the middle of the staircase.

“Abbie!” Jenny yelped, clearly caught off guard by her sister’s sudden appearance, a fact that Abbie took advantage of in order to smoothly slide past Jenny and continue down the stairs. There was a noticeable spring in her step, much to Ichabod’s pleasant surprise. Abbie had not been so upbeat in weeks.

“Oh, mornin’ Jen,” Abbie said, almost as an afterthought, taking a moment to look back at her sister. Then she paused and tilted her head, eyes squinting in confusion, as she asked, “Are you still in your PJs?”

Before Jenny could reply, Abbie was shrugging and turning her attention to Ichabod, leaving Jenny to stare at her back in shocked confusion. Abbie’s eyes met Ichabod’s, and he felt his heart skip a beat when she smiled at him. She was wearing her favorite tracksuit, and her hair—still curly, as it had been when he’d first found her in the Catacombs—was pulled back into a ponytail, a few loose strands left to frame her pretty face.

Ichabod had a sudden mental image of coiling one such curl around his index finger, as Abbie stared up at him with her luminous brown eyes, and he had to take a moment to shake himself out of the fantasy. Ignoring the flushed feeling running down his neck, Ichabod returned his Lieutenant’s smile.

“Good morrow, Lieutenant,” Ichabod said, inclining his head formally, and he privately delighted in the way Abbie’s eyes twinkled at the colonial greeting.

“Good _morrow_ to you too, Crane,” she said, deepening her voice just slightly in order to imitate his cadence. They used to partake in such morning rituals all the time, before…well, _before_. Now, such exchanges were not as common, and so Ichabod treasured them all the more, knowing how close he had come to never experiencing them again.

“Would you like to…join me for breakfast?” Ichabod asked, trying not to sound as eager at the prospect as he felt. His invitation, however, seemed to throw Abbie off, for her steps faltered and her expression flickered out of casual playfulness for a moment. The twinkle faded from her eyes, and she looked away. A portion of Ichabod’s brain said _guiltily_ , but he ignored it, and in the next moment, Abbie was back to smirking at him.

“It looks like you’re already finished,” she said, nodding towards his mostly-cleared plate.

“Oh, pish-posh!” Ichabod exclaimed. “I can certainly do with another serving—you are always critiquing my weight, after all. I could use the additional calories, in order to not be so _skinny_.”

“Pretty sure the word I used was _noodley_ , but I’m…uh, I can’t.” The awkwardness was back, and Abbie’s gaze drifted away from him, focusing somewhere over his left shoulder. But before this change could truly register, Abbie was blinking, refocusing, and smiling again. “I’m going on a run.”

She seemed, for all the world, to be truly happy with this fact.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

That was Jenny, whom Ichabod had nearly forgotten about. She stood at the foot of the stairs now, mirroring Abbie’s merry smile, but her crossed arms and carefully tilted head suggested a different set of emotions altogether. Abbie opened her mouth to respond, but Jenny continued before she could.

“It’s just—it’s not a good idea to exercise on an empty stomach, that’s all. Especially if you’re sick. After last night—”

“I’m _fine_ , Jenny.” Ichabod watched uneasily as Abbie’s entire demeanor changed—her eyes abruptly darkening and her shoulders hunching defensively. The change lasted for just a moment, however, melting away as Abbie turned to face her sister. She shrugged, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “Last night was nothing—just a bad dream.”

Jenny blinked, apparently startled by this assessment.

“Abs, c’mon. I just don’t want you to push yourself too hard—”

Abbie rolled her eyes and laughed, as if Jenny was being ridiculous.

“Who are you, my doctor? I’m not _sick_ , Jen.”

Jenny’s smile was gone now—her lips pressed themselves into a thin line.

“Well, then that was one hell of a fever for a healthy person.”

Abbie’s blasé façade was rapidly beginning to crumble—Ichabod could hear it in the way that she snapped, “So what, I have to sit down and let you take my temperature before I leave the house from now on, just because I was sweating a little under the blankets last night? I said I feel _fine_. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

Jenny’s eyes were the only ones that Ichabod could see, but they were blazing with the fire of confrontation, and he was sure Abbie’s were much the same. Tension crackled between the two women, and Ichabod suddenly felt like they had traveled back three years, to a time before Abbie and Jenny had resolved their childhood issues.

“Perhaps…”

Ichabod trailed off, quelled into silence when both sisters turned to stare at him, wide-eyed and startled out of their building argument. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Perhaps the Lieutenant could take a less intensive jog than usual, and eat when she returns.” Ichabod braced himself, waiting for a pair of objections, but they never came. Though some tension remained in the air, the majority of it seemed to have dissipated at his interruption.

Jenny was still frowning disapprovingly, but she no longer tried to stop Abbie when the latter said, “Sounds like a plan to me,” and started to head for the door. Ichabod couldn’t help but notice that Abbie’s voice had reverted back to its original chipper quality, save for an unnatural rise in pitch.

Abbie paused one more time at the kitchen threshold, sending a slightly pained, but nevertheless grateful smile in Ichabod’s direction.

“See ya later, Crane,” she said, followed by a curt, “ _Bye_ , Jen,” which was tossed over her shoulder as she walked out the front entrance. The heavy wooden door closed behind her with a _slam_.

There was barely a second of pause before Jenny threw up her hands with a snarl of frustration and stormed the rest of the way up the stairs, leaving Ichabod alone in the kitchen. He scratched the short hairs at the back of his neck, considering his options. There was no point in chasing after Abbie, who was undoubtedly halfway down the block by now, and ever since the loss of Joe, Jenny had been nearly impossible to talk to.

It was as if she had built up a wall around herself, a dam meant to hold all the grief she refused to express inside, and Ichabod had no idea how to break through it. Of the two Mills sisters, Jenny was not the one he had a close supernatural connection with, after all. Perhaps Abbie could get her to open up, but the sisters did not seem particularly fond of deep emotional discussions at the current time.

Perhaps it would be best for him to simply stay out of it, and give them time to sort out their problems on their own, rather than push them to uncomfortable limits.

He must have been standing in one spot far longer than he realized, for he was startled out of his reverie by Jenny trampling back down the stairs, now dressed in her favorite shirt, vest, and dark wash jeans. He hair looked only marginally better—Ichabod suspected she had merely run a few fingers through it before re-tying the loose bun. She ignored Ichabod, instead stopping next to the kitchen island, grabbing handfuls of books and papers and stuffing them into the open mouth of her black backpack. She was struggling with fitting the laptop in when Ichabod finally spoke up, unable to keep the edge out of his voice, making him sound like the irritated parent of an unruly teenager.

“And where, pray tell, are _you_ going now?”

“Out.” Jenny’s voice was hard, a perfect match to the set of her jaw and the granite in her eyes. “I'll be back late. Don’t bother waiting up for me.” Slinging her overflowing backpack over her shoulders, she marched past Ichabod and into the foyer, pausing only to tug on a pair of mud-covered hiking boots.

“Do me a favor,” she added, tone indicating that the _favor_ was really more of a non-negotiable directive, “and make _sure_ Abbie eats something when she comes back. And no,” she pointed back at Ichabod without looking at him, “taking two bites of something and saying that she’s full doesn’t count as eating.” Ichabod’s teeth clicked together as his mouth snapped closed, and he couldn’t help but pout at being treated like an incompetent child. Especially by someone who was acting rather childish herself.

He grumbled to himself as Jenny gave a mock salute in his direction and exited out the same door that Abbie had left from barely ten minutes before.

“Have a lovely day,” he muttered to an empty house, then eyed the ransacked kitchen, including the dirty coffee pot and the pile of used dishes in the sink, built up over the course of several meals. With a sigh, he bent down to retrieve a forgotten sheet of Jenny’s notepaper from the ground, and resigned himself to cleaning duty. _Again._

He looked down at the frenzied, handwritten notes, and frowned.

Was this truly how the fearless Mills sisters he had come to admire so over the years were choosing to deal with their more inconvenient emotions? By… _running away?_

<><><><> 

Abbie huffed out a breath, then another, letting the misty swirl of her exhales and the sharp, steady slaps of her feet against pavement lull her into a kind of meditative trance. More than anything, this was why she had taken up running since returning from the Catacombs—running allowed her to forget, to disappear into her mind in a way that Jenny would not let her do at home. Her sister seemed to think that shutting one’s brain off, even for a short time, and letting the outside world flow past you like water in a stream, was somehow a bad thing.

Jenny did not understand how doing exactly that had been the only way for Abbie to stay alive in the Catacombs, to stay  _sane_ in that place—a place without the comfort of food or the calmness of night. She thought such a habit was dangerous, indicative of a larger problem, but it  _wasn't._

Not that Jenny would listen whenever Abbie told her so. 

Last night had been an anomaly. An unexpected, but not unwelcome harkening back to their childhood, to a time when Jenny would crawl into Abbie’s bed in the middle of the night, after a bad dream or a frightening _crash_ from downstairs—the latter of which usually marked the beginning of one of their Mama’s episodes. Back then, Abbie had been the protector, the one who had stroked Jenny’s curls as her little sister curled up beside her, hoping that the darkness would be enough to hide the fear in her young brown eyes. Hoping that Jenny could not see it.

But now, as adults, Jenny did nothing to hide the concern shining in her own eyes when she looked at Abbie, when she shook her big sister awake in the middle of the night and pressed a hand to her forehead, already expecting to find a fever there. Abbie could feel it, Jenny’s worry, like an overbearing cloud, pressing down on her shoulders even when her sister was not there.

She knew that it came from a place of love, as all familial concern did. But she couldn't possibly accept it, or see it as rational, because that would mean entertaining the idea that something really  _was_  wrong with her. That she had come back ill. Or maybe just... _different_.

Which might, in some ways, be worse.

Abbie didn’t  _feel_  different, though—not really. Sure, she had nightmares, but so would anybody in her situation. Sure, she was having a little trouble adjusting from a life of complete solitude to one surrounded by people— _real_  people, not imaginary ones—who expected her to…to respond when they talked to her, and  _smile_ , and act like nothing had happened, but as Ichabod had said to her weeks ago, settling back into the real world was a process, one that had to be taken step-by-step.

Ichabod understood that she needed space sometimes. He nudged every now and then, such as this morning, when he’d asked her to eat breakfast with him, but ultimately he let her move forward at her own pace. 

 _He_ understood, so why couldn’t Jenny? 

Abbie did not currently have the patience or mental fortitude to dig through the logic of it by herself, and Jenny hadn't exactly been in a sharing mood recently. So for the time being, Jenny’s behavior would remain a mystery to Abbie, an unresolved issue that continued to drive a wedge between the once-inseparable sisters.

Abbie increased her pace, turning down a familiar path that looped through the woods behind her block. Her skin prickled with a years-old fear, as it did every time she found herself surrounded by trees on all sides, but she pushed past the irrational feeling and kept going, leaving her anxiety behind in a cloud of dust and fallen leaves.

The only way to make Jenny stop trying to play doctor, to make her go back to just being Abbie's sister, was to somehow convince her that Abbie didn’t need her helicopter care, that she really wasfine.

Which she _was_. Absolutely.

 _I’m fine_ , Abbie told herself, even as the back of her neck tingled with the feeling of being watched, even as her breath caught for a moment and her heart jumped in her chest, convinced that she had seen a familiar symbol in her peripheral vision—but no, it was just a knot in a tree. There was no symbol to be seen here.

It may haunt her memories and her dreams, and sometimes she might be tricked into seeing it over Ichabod’s shoulder or in the cream of her coffee, but Abbie knew that it was not real. It could not be here, in the misty morning light of the real world. She had left it behind, back in the Catacombs.

She’d left behind the way the symbol had flared to life, red hot but never burning, at her curious touch against an ancient stone wall.

She’d left behind the exhilaration that had coursed through her veins when it did, left behind the powerthat had swirled beneath her skin, beckoning, tempting, calling her to be  _more_ than what she was.

She’d left behind how terrified that feeling—that _power_ —had made her.

Hadn’t she?

Her dream from last night resurfaced. The diner. How August Corbin had slid into the booth across from her, with his kind eyes and easy smile, and had begun speaking to her in a language she did not know. How she’d reached for him, an instinct born from insecurity and fear. How her touch had sparked, fire arcing between the skin of their hands, and set him alight.

How Abbie could do nothing but watch and scream as he silently, serenely erupted into flames, turning to ash before her eyes.

She shoved the nightmare away, focusing on her steady, measured breathing and forcing her mind to empty. She needed to stop  _thinking_ so much.  _That_  was her only problem. 

_I’m fine. I’m fine._

She pushed herself harder, ignoring her previous agreement to take it easy, not wondering how she could be running so fast, so tirelessly, on an empty stomach, nor questioning the smell of burnt leaves curling around her, chalking it up to a nearby fire pit.

She did not look back to see the charred footprints marking her steps, and thus remained equally unaware of the pair of gleaming blue eyes lurking nearby, watching her from the shadows of the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After months of not working on this fic, I feel like my writing has gotten kinda rusty, but hopefully this chapter was an okay continuation for you all. I'm trying to make it as clear as possible that while Abbie and Jenny (and Ichabod) are all kind of at odds with each other at the moment, no single person is truly at fault for it, if that makes sense? I hope that came through well enough. 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment (or kudos!) if you want—I love them and I'll always reply! :)


	4. Compromises, Compromises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently "semi-regular updates" actually means "an update every six months." ((cringes)) Sorry about that. But hey, I'm back now, so that's something, at least? 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter anyway!

Abbie did not stop running until she reached her porch steps, where she finally slowed, bracing a hand against the railing and slumping forward, heaving out a series of wheezing breaths. Her legs felt like soft rubber, wobbling with fatigue. She had pushed herself too hard, done exactly what she’d promised not to do.

She didn’t care. Her body had told her to run—to run _fast,_ to run _away_ —and so she had listened. She’d run until the voice in her head that whispered about darkness and danger and mysterious symbols had finally quieted.

Somewhere above her, a raven crowed. Leaves rustled. Down the street a car door slammed, and the chattering voices of happy children bounced down the sidewalk, reaching Abbie just as a cool autumn breeze ruffled her hair. Despite everything, she found herself smiling at the simplicity and familiarity of _home_.

She opened her front door and was greeted with a spotless house. The kitchen shone, stainless steel appliances glittering in the noonday sun. There wasn’t a dust bunny or used takeout container in sight. She sniffed, breathing in fresh, pine-scented floor cleaner, and looked around for Ichabod.

“Crane?” she called, then paused, startled by the way her voice had cracked, making her sound much less sure of herself than she felt. She cleared her throat to try again. “Crane—”

He came skidding around the corner before she could call him a third time, a Swiffer duster clutched in one hand, its pale blue feathers trailing puffs of dust in their wake. Abbie couldn’t help but think of a dog rushing to the door to greet its owner after a long day. It had to be a big, dorky breed, though—like a Labrador. She could practically picture the wagging tail.

“Lieutenant!” Ichabod said, a rare, delighted grin setting his face alight. “You’re home.” He glanced down at the feather duster in his hand, and then back up, eyes a little too wide. Caught in the act. “I…erm, I was simply—”

“Stress-cleaning?” Abbie supplied, cocking her head to the side and shooting him a knowing look.

He grew flustered for a moment, sputtering, as if indignant at the very suggestion. He had forgone his jacket, as he often did inside the house, and his billowy shirtsleeves had been rolled up to his elbows for cleaning purposes. His hands fidgeted, trying their damnedest to wring out the Swiffer handle like it was a dishtowel.

 _Definitely_ stress-cleaning.

Abbie’s expression gentled. Where Jenny’s worry was vocal and unavoidable, Ichabod’s was usually silent and withdrawn, and thus easily hidden or overlooked. Seeing the results of it so plainly made something in her chest sting, like a wound doused in antiseptic.

“ _Well_ ,” Ichabod said finally, back going ramrod straight as he composed himself. He ignored the softness in her eyes with a lofty _sniff_. “Somebody must maintain this lovely home of ours, must they not? And as you and your sister were otherwise indisposed, I therefore took it upon myself to clean the dishes, and mop the floors, and repair that _insufferable_ creaking back door—”

“Crane, Crane, relax,” Abbie said, an unexpected laugh escaping her. _He’s always so dramatic._ She took a few steps forward, until she was close enough to curl her hands around his bare forearms. “You know I’m just teasing, right?” His fidgeting and ranting ceased immediately at her touch, his tall frame stilling beneath her hands.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, inhaling deeply.

“Yes. Of course.” The barest hint of a smile reappeared on his face, and his eyes fluttered half-open, looking down at her through his dark lashes. “Of _course_ I knew that.” His voice had softened, too, lowering in a way that made Abbie’s neck tingle and her face heat in a distinctly non-feverish way. She matched his small smile with one of her own.

For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to soak in the moment. The warmth. The feeling of coming home to this, to Ichabod and his tousled hair and private smiles and clear blue eyes—cozy and welcoming and _right_ , not at all like the crystalline blue eyes that invaded her dreams at night, turning her veins to ice—

Abbie shook herself free of the thought in an instant, but just like that the moment was ruined.

“Hey, you know,” she coughed, suddenly awkward. “You know that if anything _was_ bothering you, though…you could tell me, right? And I mean seriously. Anything.” _Even if it’s about me._

“Oh, Lieutenant.” Ichabod sighed, sounding all of his two-hundred-and-some-odd years. Abbie could feel the echoes of it travel down his whole body, and she felt the sudden urge to hug him. “As of late, I have admittedly been…concerned, I suppose you could say, about…”

He trailed off, and Abbie could see his brain switching gears—his brows furrowing, his focus narrowing. Then, to her surprise, he freed one arm from her grasp in order to swipe at the side of her face with his thumb, the gentle touch so unexpected that her pulse jumped in response to it. When he pulled away, Abbie could see a streak of blackness marring the digit.

“Is this…soot?” he asked, voice careful.

“What?”

Abbie mirrored his hand, and reached up to brush against her own face, near the top of her cheekbone, an area mostly hidden behind a loose clump of hair. She pulled away to find her fingertips smudged with black. For a moment, it was all she could see.

_Soot?_

She abruptly remembered the crackling sounds, similar but not quite the same as that of leaves underfoot, that she’d heard while running. The smell of smoke—nearby campfires, she’d assumed. Could that have been her _hair_ burning?

No, that was ridiculous. Her life existed beyond most people’s suspension of belief, but it wasn’t…whatever the hell that was.

“It can’t be,” she said, more to herself than Ichabod at first. “It’s not like—I didn’t exactly run through a _forest fire_ , Crane. I think I’d remember that.” _Wouldn’t I?_ “I must’ve just…brushed against a branch or something, and got some dirt on my face.”

Ichabod was giving her a _look_ now, and it made Abbie bristle. She shook her head, taking a hasty step back. Distance. She was not a jigsaw puzzle, with pieces that needed to be put back together by somebody else. She solved mysteries for a living—she wasn’t _one of them._

“Abbie—”

“I’m, uh, gonna take a shower now. Get all this dirt and sweat off. Cool?” She didn’t wait for a reply, already nodding and brushing past Ichabod, who turned with her but otherwise remained still, those blue eyes continuing to bore holes in the back of her skull until she reached the top of the stairs and disappeared out of sight.

Abbie slid into the bathroom, cool as a cucumber, only to spend a moment too long leaning against the back of the closed door, taking deep breaths and fighting away a sudden rush of tears. She hurriedly stripped off her favorite running clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. She tried not to think about how the scent of fire still lingered on them. She mostly succeeded.

But when she finally stepped into the shower and moved to turn on the water, her hand paused, hovering over the temperature knob, and she suddenly found it hard to breathe. Then her lips pressed together determinedly, and she twisted the knob to the left, sending a burst of hot water cascading over her head.

There was nothing to fear from a little heat, after all.

<><><><> 

Ichabod had traveled halfway up the stairs, following Abbie at a cautious pace, when he heard the shower activate. He listened to the sound of water pounding against porcelain, and found himself frowning. Not only was that water washing Abbie, he realized, but it was also washing any additional evidence down the drain.

 _Evidence?_ He stopped and repeated that thought, suddenly disgusted with himself. Evidence of _what_? What, exactly, was he accusing Abbie of?

He turned on a dime and descended back down the stairs, viciously shoving away the parts of him that begged to turn back. They were constantly calling out for Abbie, those pieces of his heart that yearned to be in her presence at all times, the same ones that wanted nothing more than to join her in that shower.

He did not deserve to desire any such thing, however—not after treating his partner with such suspicion.

Ichabod paced at the foot of the stairs for some time, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together roughly, feeling the mysterious black substance shift between the digits. It would be simple enough to determine if it was actually soot—one sniff would do—but Ichabod resisted his urge to do so. He knew that he could just as easily walk into the kitchen and turn on the faucet, rinsing the particles on his finger away like they had never existed, but he found that he could not do that either.

Was it immoral, an invasion of Abbie’s privacy, to inspect the sample? Or was it instead his responsibility as not only her partner, but also a Witness, to discover the truth? If something was truly wrong, was it not his obligation to help, whether Abbie wanted him to or not? What could such an analysis possibly tell him, anyway? What if he—

A _crunch_ sound scattered his thoughts, and Ichabod looked down to find a piece of paper crumpled under one boot. Forgetting his moral predicament for a moment, he picked it up and smoothed it out. It was another one of Jenny’s stray papers, likely lost during her rushed exit hours ago. This one appeared to have been printed out from the Internet, featuring a poorly scanned page from an old tome.

Ichabod squinted at the low quality image, trying to understand what he was looking at. Whatever it was, it was from no book that he had ever seen before.

A familiar symbol caught his eye, hastily sketched amongst densely packed ancient script. It was a square, rotated so one corner pointed upwards. Two wing-like extensions were drawn from the opposite, bottom-facing corner. Ichabod’s thumb brushed against it absently, smudging the edge of the page with a streak of blackness, his lips pressing together.

Where had he seen such a symbol before?

His normally flawless memory was hazy, like a dream that had slid from your mind upon awakening—no matter how much you tried to recall it, it remained frustratingly out of reach, just beyond the edges of the your consciousness.

Making an irritated noise at the back of his throat, Ichabod shifted his attention to the surrounding marks, hoping that they would provide an explanation, and found himself faced with a nearly indecipherable mix of ancient Mesopotamian cuneiform and runes of the Old Norse.

This only puzzled him further.

“What does it all mean?” he muttered aloud.

Ichabod gnawed on the inside of his cheek, huffed out a breath, and then sniffed once, swiping at his nose with the edge of his hand. All subconscious gestures, as his mind was already plowing forward, arranging and sorting and translating, attempting to piece together bits of information into something comprehensible. He moved without thinking, perching on one of the kitchen stools, eyes never leaving the page. Completely absorbed in seconds.

It did not occur to him until much later that his mind had registered a distinct smell when he’d wiped his nose.

It took him a fair while longer to realize that the smell had been soot.

<><><><> 

Ichabod was still sitting on the kitchen stool, scribbling on the back of the sheet of paper he’d found, when Abbie descended the stairs. Occupied by the difficult translation of Old Norse runes, he did not even notice when the bottom step creaked with her weight.

“Hey,” she said after a pause, voice soft, and Ichabod’s head snapped up, immediately wrenched out of his work. Abbie leaned against the end of the railing, wearing a baggy sweater and comfortable jeans, and her arms were hugging her own midsection in a way that seemed uncharacteristically uncertain. She wore a tender smile, one with corners that tucked themselves into her cheeks. The softness of her expression matched that of her voice, and together they carried an unspoken apology.

“Why, hello yourself,” he responded, relief flooding him. “Feeling better, I take it, after such a luxurious shower?” At his equally forgiving smile, Abbie visibly relaxed and nodded in answer, arms uncrossing and posture straightening. She padded over to him and attempted to glance over his arm to look at Jenny’s paper, craning her neck around to see.

“Whatcha working on?”

Ichabod wasn’t sure what instinct told him to crumple the paper up in his fist before Abbie could get a good look at it, but that was exactly what he did, clamoring up out of his seat in the process. He ignored the grouching look that Abbie sent his way at the blatant denial.

“Nothing of great import,” he said, and hoped that he sounded sincere, for he truly did mean it. _Nothing_ was more important to him than Abbie. “Just some translation exercises to pass the time. However…” He strode over to a cabinet and yanked it open, pulling out a can of tomato soup. “What _is_ important is the fact that I shall be making _grilled cheese sandwiches_ and soup for lunch, and _you—”_ he pointed a finger at Abbie “—are going to join me.”

He paused with his eyebrows raised, waiting for a response. It was a gamble, certainly, to state without question that Abbie would be eating with him, especially after she had so deftly sidestepped his offer this morning, but Ichabod could think of no better ways to approach the situation. Polite questioning had not worked, so perhaps a more direct tactic would.

To his delight, Abbie did not close herself off, or snap, or scurry away. Instead she smiled again and ducked her head, as if embarrassed or shy—two emotions that Ichabod rarely, if ever, associated with his Lieutenant.

“Uh,” she laughed—a short, breathy sound. “Alright, sure. Sounds great.” She canted her head to the side as Ichabod began grabbing the various items needed for cooking, her eyes twinkling. “Want some help?”

Ichabod paused for a moment, then cast a private smile, the kind he only reserved for Abbie, in her direction.

“My dear, I would _love_ some.”

<><><><> 

It had long ago grown dark by the time Jenny plodded up the porch steps, her heavy boots leaving muddy footprints on the white-painted wood—she paused for a moment to bang her feet against one of the steps to clear the excess clumps away. Ichabod would kill her if she tracked this much dirt into the house.

She glanced at the digital watch on her wrist and cringed. After bailing like she had in the morning and then staying out for almost twelve hours, he might just kill her anyway.

That would be a problem for tomorrow morning though, Jenny reasoned, as she slid her key into the lock and slipped inside. The house was quiet and still, all the lights extinguished, and as Jenny toed off her boots and began to pad her way through the living room, socked feet silent on the carpet, she felt her muscles begin to unwind for perhaps the first time that day.

Foolishly, she let her guard down.

Someone suddenly cleared their throat to her right, and she barely swallowed down a shriek of surprise. Whirling around, she was momentarily blinded by a flash of light—only to realize that it was just Ichabod, who had revealed himself by switching on the lamp beside his chair.

“ _Crane!_ ” Jenny snapped, equal parts shocked and accusing.

Ichabod merely arched one of his eyebrows, infuriatingly calm.

“Welcome home, Miss Jenny,” he said. “Shall I wish you a good evening, or would a good morning be more appropriate, given the time?”

“You almost gave me a goddamn heart attack!” she hissed at him, blatantly ignoring his ‘disappointed parent’ shtick.

Ichabod merely shrugged, and settled himself back into the cushioned seat. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, fingertips steepled in front of him, and gazed at her with thoughtful, penetrating eyes, saying nothing. It was all very theatrical and premeditated, and therefore entirely typical of Ichabod Crane.

Jenny hated forced silences; they made her twitch. So she set her jaw and grumbled, “If you’re waiting for an apology or something, then keep waiting, because it’s not coming.” More silence—it settled on Jenny’s chest like a lead weight. Leaning forward, her voice slicing through the air with a knife-sharp whisper, she added, “I don’t have to explain myself to you, you know!”

“I neither asked, nor expected you to do anything of the sort,” Ichabod replied, his innocent tone spoiled by a smug smile. “Rather, I have something I would like to show you.”

Jenny straightened and crossed her arms, regarding him carefully. His expression never changed. Eventually, curiosity got the better of her, and she sighed.

“Alright, I’ll bite. What is it?”

“It is something of yours, actually.” Reaching into his pants pocket, Ichabod pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, which he carefully smoothed out flat. “I found this on the floor while tidying the house today, and I must say, it is truly fascinating.” Jenny’s lips pressed together tightly, but she otherwise kept her expression unreadable. “Now, most of it was unintelligible to me without any additional context—a curious mix of two ancient languages from completely different cultures and periods of history. However, I was able to discern the general _theme…_ ”

Jenny’s throat spasmed as she swallowed.

“There were multiple references to life and death, but most notably…to rebirth.” Ichabod leveled her with a look, deadly serious. “Now Miss Jenny, you know, just as well as I, the dangers of necromancy—”

Jenny’s eyes flew wide.

“It is _not—!”_

She clamped her mouth shut at the too-loud outburst, pulling herself back together. One overly defensive reaction was more than enough for tonight.

“It is not _necromancy,_ ” she muttered instead, arms still crossed, body curling in on itself. “It’s only necromancy if the person you’re trying to bring back is actually…y’know, _dead_. And—” She bit her lip. Hard.

Ichabod’s expression softened with understanding.

“And you do not believe that Joe is.”

Jenny looked away. She didn’t want Ichabod to see the sheen of tears reflected in her eyes.

For a stretch of time, there was silence.

“If it worked for Abbie, then why not him?” she finally whispered, voice hoarse. “Why were you allowed to keep believing, but I have to give up?” She turned back to face him, suddenly furious. “It’s not _fair!_ Not to me, and definitely not to _him—_ ”

“You are right.”

“And I can’t just—wait, what?” Jenny stared at him, the world tilting, her fury wilting like a plant after the first frost of the season. “Did…did you just say I’m right?”

“I did,” Ichabod nodded. He braced his hands against his knees and stood, then held Jenny’s paper out to her. “And that is why, beginning tomorrow, I am going to help you.”

Jenny stared at him for a moment longer, then reached out, her hand hesitantly closing around the heavily wrinkled sheet. She flipped it over, looking down at Ichabod's familiar scrawl marking up the back of the page. One word, REBIRTH, was written in all capital letters at the bottom of the page, and had been circled multiple times. 

Jenny bit her lip again—but this time, she also smiled.

<><><><> 

Pandora lounged in a natural stone alcove, her chin tucked into one palm. She sighed, breath curling like steam in the sub-zero cavern, and watched her lover pace, freshly laid ice crackling wherever the other stepped.

“I do not _understand_ ,” Hel was saying, words punctuated by a frustrated growl. She raked a hand through her hair, coating the section she touched in a layer of frost. “The power of Death is _mine._ Mine to take, mine to rightfully wield. It does not _belong_ to him, that—that insolent _mortal_ —”

For a moment, Pandora considered correcting Hel about the intricacies of Abraham Van Brunt’s mortality—or lack thereof—but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the debate.

“Of course the power is yours, my love,” she said instead. “ _You_ are the true Goddess of Death, after all. No other.”

“I _know_ that!”

Pandora smiled, sympathetic and placating. For a being whose existence was so closely tied to the element of ice, Hel was notoriously hot-tempered.

“Perhaps he simply needs more… _encouragement_.” No beings were truly immortal, after all—or rather, _invulnerable._ Death was a power, a concept, an _avatar_ , which consequently required a host to function. And while the so-called Horseman of Death was powerful in his own right, graced with inhuman strength and a form unhindered by age, his body, the host, was still that of a mortal man, with bones to be broken and weaknesses to exploit.

And Pandora knew, better than most, about the many weaknesses of mortal men.

“No, no,” Hel mumbled, still pacing, even as she dropped her head into her hands in despair. “It will not work. It will not—he is already on the brink, his body pushed beyond what most would be able to bear. If I were to try and force Death to part from him again, the act may very well destroy him. And we _cannot_ allow the host to expire before extracting his power, or Death will be lost to the ether, and we will have to begin the search again, this time from _nothing_.” She took a breath, slowing to a stop, expression pained. “My power is so weakened in this realm, that without the aid of Death, we cannot possibly hope to accomplish our goals.”

She slumped down beside Pandora, her head finding its place in the crook of Pandora’s neck. Pandora reached around to give her lover’s head a series of comforting pats.

“I do not know what else can be _done_ , Pandora.” Hel’s voice was uncharacteristically small. “Death, it—it will no longer come to me willingly, and I do not know _why_.”

Pandora had never seen a goddess cry, but Hel seemed to be on the verge of it.

“Then we must wait,” she replied after a pause, sounding more resolute than she felt. “We must practice _patience_. We shall allow the Horseman to heal, and then we can try again. If force will not bring us success, then perhaps reason will. Perhaps he can be convinced into _giving_ his power over to us. To you.” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind one of Hel’s peeling, frostbitten ears. “Remember, my love…we _will_ accomplish all that we desire. So it is destined, so it shall be.”

Hel sighed, and then nodded in silent agreement, her curls bouncing against Pandora’s cheek. Pandora was relieved to feel the goddess finally relax, but privately, she could not help but chew on her cold, chapped bottom lip—for she knew, deep down, that Abraham Van Brunt would not relinquish his power voluntarily. If he had not done so after being tortured to near-destruction, then he would not do so at all.

She had been mortal once, and so she had immediately recognized his dead-eyed gaze, the defiant set of his jaw, the razor-sharp snarl of his words. She saw in him what had once existed in herself—the darkness of one who had nobody, no source of joy that could be taken away or bargained for. A man with nothing but his power left to sustain him in this cruel, lonely world.

And men who had nothing to lose but their own power could not possibly be reasoned with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave a comment if you wanna! I love getting them and I always reply. :)


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